"On what grounds, Mr. Deputy?" asked Rénine. "Mathias de Gorne has committed no offence against the law. There's nothing criminal in trampling the soil around a well, in shifting the position of a revolver that doesn't belong to you, in firing three shots or in walking backwards to one's father's house. What can we ask of him? The sixty thousand francs? I presume that this is not M. Vignal's intention and that he does not mean to bring a charge against him?"
"Certainly not," said Jérôme.
"Well, what then? The insurance-policy in favour of the survivor? But there would be no misdemeanour unless the father claimed payment. And I should be greatly surprised if he did.... Hullo, here the old chap is! You'll soon know all about it."
Old de Gorne was coming along, gesticulating as he walked. His easy-going features were screwed up to express sorrow and anger.
"Where's my son?" he cried. "It seems the brute's killed him!... My poor Mathias dead! Oh, that scoundrel of a Vignal!"
And he shook his fist at Jérôme.
The deputy said, bluntly:
"A word with you, M. de Gorne. Do you intend to claim your rights under a certain insurance-policy?"
"Well, what do you think?" said the old man, off his guard.
"The fact is ... your son's not dead. People are even saying that you were a partner in his little schemes and that you stuffed him under the tilt of your trap and drove him to the station."